Page 43 of Dead to Me

“Please.”

That word. I used it myself. I remembered sitting in the interrogation room as Warren told me the evidence was overwhelming.

I remembered begging him to call Malcolm. I begged him to check the cameras again. I begged him to believe I had never been there. He looked bored. Now he was the one begging. I leaned in.

“Do you remember what you told me when I said I was innocent?”

Warren’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.

“I do.”

I wrapped my hand around the knife.

“You told me everybody says that.”

His eyes widened.

I drove the blade into his throat and I pulled it out. Blood squirted across his shirt. Warren clutched at his neck. His feet kicked against the carpet.

I watched. I didn’t look away. He’d watched officers chain my waist. The least I could do was watch him die.

His movements slowed, then stopped. The room filled with silence. I stayed crouched beside him for a few seconds. I thought I would feel something, maybe relief or even joy. But instead, I just felt calm.

I stood. Then I looked at the blood. There was more than I expected. It splattered on the door, the carpet, my sweatshirt, and one side of my face.

I touched my cheek. My fingers came away red. I smiled. This finally felt like revenge.

I went to the bathroom and washed my hands.

I took off the sweatshirt and stuffed it into one of the trash bags tucked into my waistband. Then I added the knife.

I wiped down the spots I had touched in the room. I couldn’t clean up everything, but I didn’t have to. This wasn’t about making the perfect crime. I just needed time.

By the time anyone found out Warren was dead, I wanted Malcolm already bleeding.

By the time they knew Malcolm was dead, I wanted China in her wedding dress, wondering why no one was picking up their phone. I straightened the clean shirt I wore under my sweatshirt.

Then I stepped around Warren’s body. Before leaving, I crouched beside him one last time. I dipped two fingers into the blood pooling near his neck.

Then I wrote one word across the white hotel door.

LIAR

I stared at it for a moment. Warren could have it now. I glanced down the hallway. It was empty. So I stepped outside and closed the door behind me.

The elevator felt too risky, so I took the stairs instead.

By the time I reached the eighth floor, China’s bridal suite was already noisy with music, laughter, and hair dryers.

I went into my room first and scrubbed Warren’s blood from under my nails. Then I changed into the crimson satin pajamas China bought for the bridal party, slipping in what I might need later.

I checked my reflection in the mirror. It was perfect. There was no sign that Detective Warren Cole had died less than ten minutes ago.

My phone buzzed.

China.

WHERE ARE YOU??? HAIR STARTED.